


The Best Worst Valentine's Day Ever

by iamtabbyroad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crushes, Cunnilingus, F/M, I wanted to see if I could write a sex scene?, Multiple Orgasms, One Shot, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex, Smut, Teasing, Vaginal Sex, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 22:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19037161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamtabbyroad/pseuds/iamtabbyroad
Summary: Being single on Valentine’s Day would be bad enough by itself. This year, it was made even worse by what had happened the previous evening: Katie, drunkenly telling George Weasley that I'd had a secret crush on him since my sixth year.





	The Best Worst Valentine's Day Ever

 It was Valentine’s Day and I was single. Again.

I had employed my usual methods for coping, which is to say that I’d bought myself one of those massive heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, squirreled it away in my handbag, and taken it to work. Every time I felt sad, I got to eat a chocolate.

Naturally, by the time work ended, I was a good way through the box and feeling a little queasy, but no system is perfect.

Being single on Valentine’s Day would be bad enough by itself. This year, it was made even worse by what had happened the previous evening.

I had spent my fifth through seventh year playing reserve for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. This was well-matched to my interest in the sport: I got time in on a broom, the stakes were low, and I was rarely called to sub in.

My time on the reserve team came with the usual injuries—scrapes, bruises, one or two concussions—and in my sixth year, a crush on George Weasley.

Loads of people will probably tell you that George and his twin Fred were essentially the same: I quickly learned that this was decidedly not true. Fred was handsome and funny, but there was something particular about George that made my knees go a bit wobbly and my heart beat just a little harder in my chest. There was something just a little sweeter about George, little moments of gentleness that were easy to miss among whatever chaos he happened to be involved in.

Regrettably, this combination of funny, sweet, and devastatingly handsome turned me into an awkward and bumbling mess most of the time. George was kind enough to pretend he didn’t notice—he was still pleasant to me, still smiled at me in the corridors, still tried to make me laugh when Angelina was making us run drills. It was just another thing that made him easier to like—which then translated into more awkwardness from me and so on.

Nothing ever came of that—I never expected it to, really. Fred and George flew off into the sunset and then there was the War, and life marched resolutely on. But I kept in touch with the Quidditch team after Hogwarts—I went to the meetups at the Leaky, turned up to watch professional Quidditch games that I didn’t have a particular interest in, stayed on the group owl. A large part of that had to do with George. And despite the fact that we were now both in our early twenties, I hadn’t really outgrown my stupid crush or the awkwardness that came with it. George was still kind enough to pretend not to notice—which, again, made it easy to like him and perpetuated the same stupid cycle.

Mostly, this was acceptable to me: being awkward was a small price to pay for whatever time I got to spend around George. One day, he was probably going to get serious with someone and I’d need to work out how to outgrow my stupid crush, but that day had not yet arrived, so I persisted, not really expecting anything to ever come of it.

And then last night, Katie had to go and open her stupid mouth.

I should have seen it coming. Katie had just split up with Cormac McLaggen (another story entirely)—of course she was going to drink. Of course she would overindulge; of course that would make her a little too chatty and maybe a little stupid.

And of course, I had entrusted her with this particular secret.

So when she accidentally let slip to George that I had been harboring a secret crush on him for years, I watched it with the sort of detached horror that I imagine you might feel if you watched a car crash. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop it and really, everything about that particular situation pointed to a spectacular accident, but it was horrifying all the same.

There was an odd sort of rushing sound in my ears and it felt as though all the blood in my body had drained to a particular point in my stomach. Angelina’s jaw dropped, Alicia took a long pull from her drink, and Katie clapped a hand over her mouth a second too late.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at George, or Fred for that matter—Fred was surely a reflection of whatever George’s reaction was.

I can handle most conflict, but there are some situations that leave me feeling so sick and helpless that I can’t help but flee. This was one of those situations. I muttered an excuse that went unheard over the noise of the pub and the next thing I knew, I was Apparating away, Katie’s wide eyes the last thing I saw.

I didn’t cry. I was too shellshocked to cry. Instead, I took a Calming Draught and crawled into bed. 

There was a veritable swarm of owls outside my window the next morning, all irritated, none placated by my offers of owl treats. I took the letters—several in Katie’s neat handwriting, a few from Angelina and Alicia, an untidy scrawl that I thought might belong to George—and left them on my desk. Trying to navigate that mess before work and without the benefit of wine seemed like a bad idea.

I got a few more owls from Katie while I was at work, all of which I ignored, not because I was angry, but because I couldn’t handle thinking about it any more than I already was. I made up a new rule: for every owl I got from Katie, I got to eat two chocolates.

Near the end of the day, I got an owl from my sister, Quinn. I opened the letter and read it quickly, my stomach sinking even further.

My nephew Archie was turning six on Sunday. Naturally, he had recently become obsessed with a special edition of Wizard’s chess where the chessmen heckled the player with rude sounds and jokes regardless of how well they were doing in the game.

Naturally, this was a product that was only sold through Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

Naturally, it had been on backorder for weeks and Quinn had been waiting for it to arrive. Naturally, she had chosen to pick up the item in the store when it arrived to save a few Sickles on owling.

And naturally, she was going to pick it up today, but Gavin was home with a stomach flu and she couldn’t exactly take Archie with her to pick up his gift, so would I mind popping by to pick it up and bringing it along on Sunday?

I stared at the letter for a long moment. The short answer was that yes, I did mind because I had not been planning on setting foot anywhere near Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes for the next century or so. 

Problem was, I’d never been good at saying no to Quinn and I was twenty times more indulgent when it came to anything regarding Archie. And it’s not like this was an unreasonable request. 

And really…did going to the joke shop really mean I was going to run into either one of them? Not necessarily. Fred and George didn’t always work the till, especially as the shop had grown more successful. And, if one of the twins was going to ring me up, there was at least a fifty percent chance that it would be Fred, which, while not ideal, would not be anywhere near as awkward.

Besides, it was Valentine’s Day: George probably had a date.

I felt my cheeks burn with more residual humiliation from the night before. That was only one of the reasons why this entire thing was so embarrassing: he had much better options than some person he knew from Quidditch half a lifetime ago.

I looked at Quinn’s note again. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her no.

I was worrying over nothing. I’d be  _fine_.

It was snowing when I left work that evening; it was the sort of heavy, wet snow that seeps under your coat collar and churns up on the pavement in an unpleasant slush and I was chilled when I ducked into the shop at three minutes to closing. I glanced up at the till as I shook some of the snow from my hair, preparing to make a quick escape if I needed to. Verity was working; there was no sign of either Fred or George. The knot in my shoulders gradually released. There had been nothing to worry about. Just a few more minutes and I’d be home.

My boots squeaked against the floor as I made my way up to the till. Verity smiled as I approached, jotting something down on a pad of paper in front of her.

“Sorry, just a moment,” she said, scribbling furiously. “Are you here for an order?”

“Yes, I’ve got the notice right here,” I said, fishing the receipt Quinn had sent out of my handbag.

 “Brilliant.” Verity checked her watch. “I’m about to pop out for the evening, but my colleague should be right along and he’ll be able—”

My stomach twisted. Oh no.

George Weasley opened the door from the backroom.

“—ah, yes, here he is now. George, this customer is here for an order.” Verity handed him the slip of paper that she’d been writing on. “And here’s the information on the gentleman I spoke with earlier about the fake wands.”

George looked moderately surprised to see me, but he didn’t look horrified, which I suppose was a plus. 

Still, the earth never opens up and swallows you whole when you need it to.

“Right,” said George to Verity. “I’ll close up and take care of this, you get out of here.”

She grabbed her coat and shrugged into it, smiling as she breezed past me. “Thanks, George!”

 “Behave yourself!” he called after her.

The bell on the shop door jingled cheerily and the door slammed shut, leaving George and me in an awkward silence.

“Um. Quinn asked me to pick up her order,” I said in lieu of greeting. “Archie’s turning six on Sunday and Gav has the stomach flu, so…” I trailed off, my cheeks burning as I heard how ridiculous I sounded. 

“The chess set? I’m surprised she’s letting him have this,” he said, flicking his wand at a set of shelves in the back. The chess set came zooming out, skidding to a halt on the counter in front of us. “We’ve gotten a few Howlers about that one.”

He was acting like nothing had happened and I clung to that kindness like a drowning man clings to a rope. “I can imagine,” I said as he punched in a series of keys on the register. Six Galleons, three Sickles. He’d given me a discount.

The polite thing to do would be to thank him, but I didn’t know what to make of that and anything I could possibly say felt awkward and strange in my mouth. That sick, choking sensation from the night before suddenly came back and my hands started shaking. The chess set was already in a bright magenta bag that I suspected was roughly the same shade as my face.

“You know—I’d better go,” I said, turning on my heel, determined to leave the shop as quickly as possible. I could come back tomorrow, maybe.

“Wait—”

It all happened so quickly that it was difficult to register. One moment, I was trying to flee the store in the least tactful way possible, and the next thing I knew, my boot was slipping on the slick floor, the world was turning on its axis, and my skull was slamming into something painfully solid.

I stared up at the ceiling of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, my head aching and my eyes watering with pain. This day could not possibly get any worse.

The moment that this thought occurred to me, the universe saw fit to remind me that yes, indeed, it could get worse: George Weasley suddenly appeared in my field of vision, brow furrowed and his mouth pulled into a frown. My eyes were swimming with tears and I wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or because I was utterly mortified.

“Are you all right?” he asked, kneeling on the floor next to me.

My breath came in short gasps. Tears were now leaking out of the corners of my eyes and running into my hair. “I’m fine,” I managed to gasp after a moment.

George lifted a single eyebrow. “Well, you’re telling jokes, so I suppose that’s a good sign.”

I managed a broken sort of laugh that felt a little like a sob and he gave me a grim smile in return.

“In all seriousness, though,” he said, “it looked like you hit your head pretty hard. How d’you feel?”

“A bit like I’m on a boat and like my head's been split down the center. That’s normal, right?”

“Mmm, not ideal, that,” he said.

I wiped my hand against my eyes, trying to blink away some of the tears. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any potions for head injuries, because I am fairly certain this is a concussion,” I said, a knot of dread forming in my stomach. If today ended with a trip to St. Mungo’s, I was going to have to change my name and move to a different continent.

“Lucky for you, I’ve got an entire collection of remedies for head injuries in my office.” He grinned at my skeptical expression. “You learn to have these sorts of things on hand when you make your living running all manner of ill-advised experiments.”

I managed a weak smile. “I suppose that’s a sensible strategy.”

“It’s one of the few sensible things that we do on any sort of regular basis,” he said. He seemed to note the way I was sprawled on the floor. “I reckon you probably don’t want to lie in a puddle of melting snow, though.”

I sighed. “Honestly, with the day that I’ve had, I’m not sure it matters.”

His mouth quirked into a wry smile, but his eyes were soft. “If you hang onto me, d’you think you can make it to my office? It’s not very far and I’ve got a couch that is both more comfortable than the floor  _and_  not covered in melting snow.”

“I think so. Maybe.” Hesitantly, I eased myself up onto my elbows. The room spun rather unpleasantly and for a moment, I thought I might be sick.

“Here.” George was hooking my arm around his shoulder and wrapping his arm around my waist. “I’ve got you, just take your time.”

In any other circumstance, I would have loved this: an excuse to be near George Weasley! Be still my heart. As it was, I felt a bit too miserable to think about anything other than not falling or not being sick. 

It took a while, but he slowly helped me to my feet and we made our halting, shuffling way to his office, where he helped ease me down onto a rather squashy leather sofa, propping a throw pillow under my head after I’d shrugged out of my winter coat and boots. I took stock of the room while he rooted around in a cabinet. It was neater than I expected—everything seemed to have its own place, though it was organized by a logic that I couldn’t quite decipher, with products and ingredients stacked next to each other, all labeled in the same sloppy handwriting. 

The same sloppy handwriting that had been on one of the letters that had arrived at my flat that morning.

I swallowed. I would try not to think about that until later.

George finally found what he was looking for and rolled his desk chair over to the couch, a tiny vial of green liquid in hand.

 “Right,” he said, unstopping the vial, “two things with this. First, take it all in one go. Second, you’ll need to lie down for forty-five minutes after taking it. Speaking from experience, that is not an instruction you should ignore if you do not want to end up with a massive, day-long headache.”

“Okay,” I said, taking the vial from him. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was dimly aware of the fact that spending forty-five minutes alone with George Weasley after the previous night’s utter humiliation was probably not my top choice. But pain has a way of reshuffling your priorities and at that moment, my chief concern was feeling better.

I put the vial to my lips, wincing slightly as I tipped it back—it had a rather odd taste of anise and something metallic.

“Taste goes away after a minute or so,” said George, taking the vial from me and setting it on the table next to the couch.

“It’s certainly a unique flavor profile,” I said, and he chuckled softly.

A minute of quiet passed. The pain in my head was receding, allowing me to focus more on the utterly humiliating situation at hand.

“Don’t feel like you have to wait with me,” I said finally. “I'm sure you've got to close up."

"Closing's mostly automated—locking spells and such," said George. "And even if it weren't, I'm not about to leave you alone with a head injury."

“I’ve taken a potion, I’m probably going to be fine.”

“See, it’s the ‘probably’ part of that sentence that’s concerning,” he said with a bit of a grin.

“I don’t want to keep you from your evening—”

“You’re not,” he said gently. “But speaking of plans, do you need me to owl anyone so they don’t send out a search party?”

I snorted. “Unless you count a glass of wine in my flat by myself as plans, no.”

Another crooked grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “My plans were fairly similar.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I feel like you’re only saying that to make me feel better.”

“I am being totally honest,” he said, solemnly raising his right hand. “I had some candles and a bottle of wine waiting for me upstairs. It was going to be incredibly romantic and possibly a little sad.”

I laughed and something in his expression lightened in a way that was utterly charming. I’d always liked how much he enjoyed making people laugh.

We were both quiet for a moment and the memory of last night slowly reasserted itself into the forefront of my mind. I shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

“So, I know you’ve got a head injury, but we should probably talk about last night,” he said after a little bit.

My stomach knotted unpleasantly. “Right. Sorry about that. I—erm. You weren’t meant to—I...er. Well.”

He looked at me with a slight smile. “I take it you didn’t read my owl.”

I swallowed. “Um. Well…no. I was going to. Later.” I wasn’t entirely sure if that was true or not.

“And you left before I could say anything.”

“Yes…well, I…I figured it would probably be less uncomfortable for you if I just…removed myself from the situation…”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit of an assumption, isn’t it?”

“I mean…I didn’t…” I trailed off awkwardly. He watched me, a slight smile on his lips, like he was waiting for me to catch on to a joke. My stomach twisted rather unpleasantly and I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry or die or all of the above. To my utter humiliation, I found my eyes welling up again with tears.

George's expression softened a bit and that was enough to send a few tears trailing down my cheeks. Reflexively, I placed my hands over my face, like not seeing him would somehow make this better.

"Sorry," I said. 

"You don't need to be sorry—"

"The whole thing was humiliating enough on its own and then I had to go and give myself a sodding concussion in your shop less than twenty-four hours later—"

I felt him slide from the desk chair onto the couch next to me as warm hands closed around my wrists and gently pulled my hands away from my face. I looked up at George; his expression was gentle and a little sweet, which twisted the knife in my gut a second time.

"—I just...I didn't intend for this to..." Words failed me and I blinked hard against the tears that were welling fresh in my eyes. 

He sighed and carefully, tenderly, brushed a lock of hair from my face, his fingertips grazing my jawline, thumb brushing against my lower lip. I looked up at him, moon-eyed, my breath stilled in my throat.

There was a bit of a smile in his voice as he said, "I really wish you had read my owl."

Before I could even form the words to ask why, he leaned down and kissed me.

It was sweet and slow in the way that first kisses often are: a little hesitant, a little careful, learning the contours of each other’s mouths, tasting lips and tongues. His hand was warm against my cheek and he tasted slightly of spearmint.

He pulled back after a moment, enough that he could look me in the eye. "I've wanted to do that since October of my seventh year."

My mouth opened and closed rather uselessly as my heart thudded in my throat. I had so many questions, but the only one I could think to ask at that moment was “Why October?”

“That practice when you made that spectacular save,” he said simply.

I knew exactly which one he was talking about—it had been a spectacular save...and I had landed spectacularly in a mud puddle. I had more questions about this, but my mind was spinning its wheels trying to sort out the fact that George Weasley had just kissed me.

“I…I never got the impression that you had any interest—”

“That was intentional,” he said. “I knew early on that we’d be leaving and I didn’t think it’d be fair to pursue anything…then there was the War…” He trailed off, giving me a slight smile. “Always hoped to follow up on that thought, though.”

I gaped at him for another moment. “Oh,” I said finally, completely at a loss for words.

“I explained all of this in my owl, of course,” he said, not quite able to hide a smile. “And I would have happily explained it to you last night if you’d stayed.”

“I—er.” I swallowed. “I didn’t realize…”

"Clearly." He grinned, but his voice was soft and intimate in a way that sent shivers running up my spine. "Let me reiterate my initial point."

This kiss started out sweet and slow, but after a few minutes, it began to shift into something hungrier and more wanting, devouring instead of just tasting. His teeth grazed my bottom lip, hinting at something that drew a moan from the back of my throat and made my back arch to press myself more firmly against him.

He turned his attention to my neck. "I hate to do this," he mumbled in between kisses, "but we might want to pause and pick this up after your forty-five minutes has concluded. Just to be safe."

"How much longer is that?" I asked.

He checked his watch. "Half hour."

I sighed heavily and he chuckled against my neck. "I mean, I suppose that's probably smart," I said.

"Probably," he said, though he made no immediate move to stop nuzzling and kissing my neck. "You smell really nice," he said after a moment. "This is interfering with my plan to sit up."

"Well...if you don't...I mean, what's the worst that could happen?" I asked

"Things continue on their merry path toward the conclusion that I suspect we are heading toward, we're not careful enough, you sit up too early, and end up with a massive, day long headache."

"Right. That does sound pretty bad."

"I can think of better ways to end the evening," he said. "In contrast, waiting—" he lifted his head to glance at his watch "—twenty-eight minutes and continuing where we left off would result in a better outcome for both parties."

"And what outcome is that?"

"Well," he said, kissing me sweetly on the lips, "there are a number of excellent options that I think we'd both like. Personally, my two favorites are Exploding Snap or really incredible sex."

"I've a feeling you've got a preference for one over the other," I said. 

"You could be underestimating how much I like card games," he said, quirking an eyebrow.

I shifted pointedly against the bulge that was pressing hard into my stomach. "Right."

He laughed and kissed me again. "I suppose I can't very well pretend that's about card games."

"I should hope not."

He sat up for real this time, though he kept one hand splayed on my hip. "I could Floo in an order for delivery, if you'd like. It'll probably arrive right around when you're able to sit up."

Dinner was the farthest thing from my mind at that point—and honestly, I had other hopes for what I would be doing thirty minutes from now. I didn’t say any of this out loud, but George seemed to infer quite a lot from my expression.

“I’ve always thought Chinese tastes better cold,” he said with a bit of a sly smile. "In case we don't get to it right away."

My cheeks burned in a rather pleasant way. "That sounds good."

"How do you feel about the Szechuan Snitch?"

"That sounds fine—I'm partial to the number six dinner special."

He grinned. “I’ll put in an order now.”

He stood up and went to his desk where he scrawled down our order on a piece of paper. I chewed my lip as I watched him thoughtfully, waiting until after he’d Floo’d in the order before I asked the question that was on my mind.

“Does this mean…are we on a proper date?” I asked.

He grinned as he rejoined me on the couch. “I thought that was implied, but yes, I suppose we should say that officially.” He took my hand in his, threading his fingers through mine, his other hand coming to rest casually on my hip.

"Good."

There was a moment of quiet. He drummed his fingers gently against my hip. “Anything in particular you’d like to do to pass the time?”

I could feel my cheeks burning. "I mean, yes, but I think you've ruled that out."

"Oh, I wouldn't say I've ruled it out," he said with a bit of a smirk, his eyes trailing pointedly to my lips.

"What was it you said? 'I think we should pick this up once your forty-five minutes is up?' That seems pretty clear to me."

He raised his eyebrows and turned my hand over in his, as if to study my palm. "There are some other options." He ran a thumb over the crease in my palm.

"Oh?"

He lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my palm. "Yep." He kissed the fingertip and joints of my little finger before proceeding to my ring finger.

"You're going to need to be more specific."

"Well..." He paused to kiss my middle finger, forefinger and thumb in the same manner. “I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued by the idea of drawing things out a bit."

I sighed. "I ought to have known you'd be a tease."

"A little bit." He brought his lips to the tender skin on the inside of my wrist, the tip of his tongue briefly pressing against my pulse. I inhaled sharply and his gaze turned wicked as he pulled away. “I always deliver, though."

A familiar heat was beginning to pool in my stomach. “Do you?”

“Yes.” He kissed the inside of my wrist again, his eyes dark and full of promise.

"I dunno," I said. "It's difficult for me to have a lot of faith in deliverables if my experience is limited to just the past twenty minutes or so."

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a tempting argument, certainly.”

I licked my lips, intentionally dragging my top teeth over my lower lip, relishing the little thrill I got when he sucked in a shaky breath. “I mean, I think I'd need a little more data in order to properly assess."

“I reckon I could manage that,” he said, his eyes trailing to my lips. “Just the one, though.”

 "Just one."

He lowered his mouth to mine again and kissed me with a thoroughness that made me feel the approximate consistency of liquid gold. When he started to pull back, my fingers curled around the lapels of his shirt almost without thought. I managed to get a second kiss started before his hands closed around mine and he withdrew, a little breathless and his eyes dancing with mirth.

"'Just the one,' hmm?" he said.

"There was need for a larger sample size," I said with a shrug.

He laughed, sitting up a bit, his hand splaying against my hip. "I can assure you that will be forthcoming."

"I'll hold you to that."

He gave me a lazy grin that had me wishing for a Time Turner. "I'm counting on it."

We were quiet for a moment. Idly, he traced his fingertips from my hip up the curve of my waist to my ribs and back again, making my stomach muscles tense in a rather pleasant way.

“The dive into the mud puddle was really what did it for you?” I said after a moment.

“There were other factors, but yes.” His fingertips trailed the circuit from my ribs to my waist to my hip. “You didn’t flinch. It was all very fearless and absurdly sexy.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”

He gave me another lazy grin, fingers trailing from my hip to my waist to my ribs again. A pleasant shiver ran up my spine.

I cleared my throat. "Fred's not around tonight, is he?"

“Fred kindly fucked off to the Bahamas for a long weekend with his girlfriend earlier this afternoon, so my flat is blissfully empty.” He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Any particular reason you're inquiring?"

"Card games," I said.

"Hmm." His fingers were stroking their way along the curve of my ribs, his eyes hooded as his gaze followed the path of his fingers, pausing finally at the bottom button of my blouse. 

"You sure?" he asked, rolling  the button in between his thumb and forefinger.

"Yes," I said.

His lips curled into a mischievous smile as he slowly undid the button he'd been toying with, dipping a forefinger beneath the fabric of my shirt, his fingertip pressing against the bare skin of my stomach, dragging slowly up to the next button.

"I don't think you're being truthful," he murmured, rolling the next button in between his fingers.

"That's a bold accusation," I said.

"I think you intend to have your wicked way with me," he said.

"Very progressive of you," I said and his lips quirked up into a smile.

"I thought so," he said, undoing that second button. His fingers trailed up my stomach to the next button, right where my ribs met. He noticed my quiet intake of breath and his smile widened.

I cleared my throat. "How much longer have I got?" Surely we had to be in the single digits by now.

He glanced at his watch. "Seventeen and a half minutes."

"Fuck."

He chuckled. "I should note that this is also quite difficult for me," he said, with  pointed look at the pronounced bulge in the front of his trousers.

"Pointing that out sort of exacerbates my particular situation," I said as he undid another button. There were two left.

He licked his lips and grinned. "Pointing what out? The fact that I want you?" His fingers traced the skin just under the band of my bra. "You made a note of it before. I thought it was pretty obvious."

"You are intentionally missing my point," I said.

He gave me a lazy smile and undid the button. "Keeps things interesting." His fingers crept up, brushing against the curve of my breasts. The last button was a mere formality, really, and he undid it with a quick flick of his thumb. He stared openly, appreciatively, fingertips trailing up my stomach, grazing against the curve of my breasts, bringing the ache between my legs to an intensity that I'd rarely felt.

"I like how you're looking so far," he said, his gaze dragging lazily up my chest. "I'm quite looking forward to the full reveal."

"We could accelerate that."

"I'm enjoying the anticipation," he said, his voice going a little low as he dragged his thumb along the waistband of my trousers, pausing at the button, tracing the line of the zipper.

I couldn't quite hold back a whimper and my hips jerked forward to try and press against his hand. "How much longer?"

"Thirteen minutes." He looked up at me through lowered lashes. "I bet you're soaked."

I let out a shuddering breath. "You have no idea."

"I intend to find out." He gave me a wicked grin, tracing the line of my zipper again. "In thirteen minutes." 

I groaned. “You’re lucky that I want you as much as I do.”

“Really?” he said, tracing another lazy line at the waist of my trousers. “How much is that?”

"You are making a very bold assumption that I'm capable of intelligent speech at the moment."

He slipped the tip of his finger beneath the waistband of my trousers. "Any particular reason why?" he said, not quite able to hide a wicked grin.

I placed my hand on his thigh, my fingers resting on the inside seam of his trousers, not quite close enough to where he wanted me to be, but close enough to make his breath hitch.

"I dunno, George," I said, making my eyes as wide and innocent as possible. "Why do you think?"

He seemed to take this as a challenge, giving me a heated look before lowering himself parallel to me and pressing his lips against the furrow of my cleavage.

"No idea," he mumbled against my skin, before drawing a lazy circle with his tongue. 

"How long?" I asked as his hands cupped my breasts over the fabric of my bra, gently squeezing and kneading.

"Eleven minutes. And you need to stay still," he said as I tried to arch into his touch.

"You're making that quite difficult," I said breathlessly as he began leisurely kissing his way down my stomach.

"That's sort of the intent," he said, sending a wicked grin up at me, which didn't do anything to soothe the ache between my legs or bring me any sort of relief. "But it'll be worth it."

He stopped his descent when he reached the waist of my trousers. He kissed an exquisite path along the skin of my stomach just above my waistband, looking up at me every so often with a bit of a smirk or a hungry sort of look. As before, he traced the line of the zipper, fiddled a bit with the button...

...and then slowly sat up.

At this point, I had ventured slightly beyond where pride or reason mattered, so I whimpered and reached for him, clawing at his shirt, trying to urge him forward.

"Five more minutes, love," he said gently.

"George. Please." I was grasping, desperate and there was a moment where his expression changed just a touch and I knew that I'd struck the magic combination of words that would make him drop some of the teasing. "Kiss me."

He obliged, his mouth moving hungrily over mine. It seemed absurd that we'd never kissed prior to about thirty minutes ago, and yet my body was responding like I needed it as much as air or water. My legs wrapped around his waist and my hips thrust forward until I could feel him, hard and ready beneath several layers of clothing, pressing against my throbbing, aching heat. I rocked against him, sighing at the slight friction it created, desperately wanting more.

“Easy,” he murmured, though he met me with his own movement, rolling his hips against me and groaning slightly against my mouth. 

We did this for a few minutes, gently rocking together in a sort of pale imitation of the act that was looming in our future, close but still frustratingly far.

“I want you,” I breathed after a few minutes. 

“I know, love. Three more minutes and you can have me.” He rocked his hips forward again. “Can you feel how much I want you?” 

“Fuck, yes.”

The last three minutes were the hardest—pun not intended (mostly)—filled with the sounds of both of us gasping and groaning as we moved together, occasionally punctuated by the sound of George swearing as he checked his watch.

But finally, he looked at his watch and I knew without asking that there were no more minutes to count. He rolled off of me and sat up.

"Go slow," he said, offering me a hand. I took his hand and sat up slowly, carefully rolling my shoulders and neck.

"All right?" he asked.

"Think so."

"Dizzy?"

I carefully straddled his lap, guiding his hands to my hips. "Nope."

"Pain or nausea?" he asked as I put my hands on his shoulders.

"None," I said.

"Hmmm." He looked at me, our noses almost touching. He brushed his lips gently against mine, nipping very gently at my lower lip. "Do you want to go upstairs and shag me stupid?"

"Very much," I breathed, rolling my hips against him for good measure.

"I suppose it doesn't necessarily have to be upstairs," he said. "You could shag me stupid on my desk or on this couch, up against that wall, any of the chairs....I'm quite amenable to most locations really."

"Let's try upstairs in your bed to start and we'll discuss other potential locations later."

He grinned and kissed me again, guiding my hips to rub against the hard bulge of his cock. "We'll, we should get going or it may very well be in my office."

I slipped off his lap and offered him a hand. He took my hand and stood capturing my lips in a kiss and nudging me backward until my back pressed against the wall. 

"I thought we were going upstairs," I said.

"We are," he said, guiding my hands to his shoulders. He crouched slightly, his hands gripping the backs of my thighs. "Ready?"

I scarcely had time to respond before he was lifting me. My legs wrapped around his waist and his hands braced against my thighs and ass.

"You sure you can manage this?" I asked.

"Pfft. Look, I know it's been a few years since Quidditch ended, but that doesn't mean I've lost my Bludger toned arms."

"There's a difference between hitting a Bludger and carrying another human being up the stairs while also contending with a massive erection."

"Massive?" he said with a quirk of his eyebrow. "I'm flattered. You haven't even seen it properly."

"I meant massive in terms of it being a distraction."

"Right," he smirked. We had reached the stairs and he was climbing with no effort or stumbling.

"Once again, you're lucky that I want you as much as I do."

"Once again: please elaborate in great detail."

"Why would I do that while you're trying to navigate stairs? That seems like asking for trouble."

"So scandalous that I'd drop you." I could practically hear him wiggling his eyebrows. "That sounds intriguing."

"Sure it's intriguing, you're not the one who's getting dropped."

"Fair point. Would you mind getting the door? My hands are full." He patted my bum with both hands and I rolled my eyes and reached around to open the door.

His flat was a warm, homey sort of place: I briefly registered a kitchen that looked well used, a fireplace in the living room, thick braided area rugs on creaky hardwood floors. A well-lit hallway that led to a bedroom with a large, comfortable bed.

George carefully set me down on the aforementioned bed and generously allowed me a half second or so to shrug the rest of the way out of my open blouse before his long and clever fingers were snaking around my back to undo the clasp of my bra before pressing me back into the mattress, his mouth descending to tease the tender skin of my nipples into stiff, aching points. Meanwhile, I'd managed to tug off his tie and was struggling with the buttons on his vest. He took over after a moment, quickly undoing the buttons on his vest and then his shirt before shrugging both off and discarding them in a rumpled heap. Despite all his joking about his Bludger toned physique, he was nicely built and lean with broad shoulders smattered with a light dusting of freckles, a tantalizing trail of wiry ginger hair that crept down his stomach before disappearing under the waistband of his trousers.

While I paused to admire him, he kept going, undoing the button and zipper on my trousers and pulling them off in one quick motion. He paused for a moment, seemingly to admire the lace trim of my knickers before rolling back on top of me and kissing a trail from my lips to my neck to the swell of my breasts, his hands anchored on my hips.

 “George.” It was part command, part plea, all wanting.

“Do you want me?” he murmured against my neck, as if there was ever any doubt. Instead of answering, I grabbed his hand and brought it between my legs, pressing his fingers against the now soaked fabric of my knickers.

He frowned, his intake of breath sharp as he gently dragged his fingers along the center of the fabric. "Oh, this won't do," he said, his voice husky and eyes hooded. "You're soaked."

"Please," I breathed as his fingers pressed a little harder.

"I can't very well keep teasing you," he murmured, his hand sliding under my knickers. "Not when you're already so wet."

His fingers finally—finally—stroked my clit and I moaned, my back arching and hips thrusting forward, thirty minutes of an aching buildup finally feeling the semblance of relief. George looked down at me with a kind of wonder, like he might have been a little surprised that he'd pushed me to this point.

"Please don't stop," I breathed.

"I'm not going to, sweetheart," he murmured, his unoccupied hand tugging down my knickers until I was able to kick them off entirely. "Not until I've made you come at least twice." 

He gave me one heated look and a smile that felt a little ravenous, but it was that "at least" that made me tremble in anticipation. He repositioned himself lower on my body, hooking my right leg over his shoulder, kissing a line along the tender skin of my inner thigh, until I could feel the warm heat of his breath against the most intimate part of me.

Up to that point, my experience receiving oral sex had been wildly varied. I’d been with several men whose idea of the act was to thrash their tongues around as quickly as possible, pausing every few minutes to ask if I was coming yet—which, honestly, if you have to ask, the answer is almost certainly no. I’d been with a few men who were good, who actually seemed to enjoy what they were doing and cared about whether I was also enjoying it or not.

George was in the latter category. Decidedly so. Exceptionally so. Within one minute of his tongue hitting my clit, I was fairly certain, I was ruined for other men; at minute two, I found myself wondering about the practicalities of insuring his mouth; within four minutes, I had given up on that thought largely because forming full, coherent thoughts was no longer possible. At minute five, time ceased to have meaning.

His movements were long and sure, neither too quick nor too slow, a steady rhythm that began to build the most fantastic pressure low in my hips, gradually expanding. After some time, he slid one long finger into me, curling it toward him until he found the angle and rhythm that had me moaning and tangling my fingers in his hair, while his lips and tongue continued doing magnificent things to my clit.

Thirty minutes of teasing followed by expert cunnilingus seems like the sort of thing that should result in a quick orgasm, but the lead-up was surprisingly slow, and he kept me riding the very edge of my orgasm for a lot longer than I thought possible. But eventually, it became too much, rising up within me like a tidal wave, my muscles clenching to his thrusting fingers as the tingling pulse along my body expanded and finally arrived at peak that had me crying out, hands gripping the sheets, my back arching.

“Fuck, that was gorgeous,” murmured George a moment later, his fingers still thrusting slowly inside of me. “Was that good?”

He had a wicked sort of grin, the kind that told me he knew damn well how good that was. 

“If you are genuinely confused about whether or not I enjoyed that, we may need to treat you for a head injury,” I gasped.

He shrugged, still grinning. “I reckoned it’d be polite to ask before I give you another.” 

My breath hitched as his fingers curled ever so slightly inside of me and a familiar ache returned. “You’re awfully confident.”

“I’ve an excellent track record.” He curled his fingers a little more and it was all I could do not to throw my head back and moan. “Do you want to come for me again?” he asked softly, edges of his voice a little rough, his eyes dark and a little hungry. “I bet you need to.”

I could feel my body responding, preparing for another round. I nodded. “Please.”

His grin was wicked. “Please what?”

“Please make me come again. I need it. I need it. I—”

He brought a single, feather light finger to my clit, stroking me in small circles that felt perfect and simultaneously maddening on my hypersensitive clit. “You sure?”

“George, please—”

This apparently was the golden combination—his name and a please because he lowered his mouth again to my clit with little more than a cheeky grin. After that, it took only a few more strokes of his teasing tongue to send me flying back over the edge.

“Told you so,” was the first thing he said upon lifting his mouth from between my legs.

“I think I liked you more when you weren’t talking,” I said, archly.

“You don’t mean it,” he said, crawling up my body. I reached for him without thinking and he smiled as he kissed me.

“I suppose I’m undermining my point,” I mumbled against his lips, my hands raking down the plane of his back, sliding around to his belt buckle.

"Little bit," he agreed, dragging his lips along my jawline to my neck. I managed to get his belt undone, then his button and zipper. In a series of quick movements, he shed his trousers before resituating himself on top of me, guiding my hand to wrap around the hard, smooth flesh of his cock. He swore and made a low groan in the back of his throat as my hand closed around the thick length of him.

“I need you,” he said, kissing me, thrusting his hips forward. 

"You need me?" I said. I couldn't quite help letting a rather teasing sort of note into my voice. After all that he'd put me through with his teasing and knowing smirks, it was a little empowering and rather sexy to be on the other end of things. I gave him one long stroke, relishing his sharp intake of breath and the low moan, the way that his hips thrust forward. "I dunno, should I tease you like you did to me?"

He looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. "I will point out that this was for the practical reason of allowing a potion to work."

"Yeah, but you could've given me a little relief," I said, slowly stroking my hand up the length of his cock.

He inhaled sharply and gave me a lazy smile. “I didn’t want to risk all of this not happening, though. And besides—” His smile turned a little wicked. “—you ended up coming pretty fucking hard. Twice. And I don’t think you’re done yet.”

This sent a bit of a thrill through me, but I pretended to think it over, slowly moving my hand on his cock. “Hmmm.”

He leaned in and kissed me, lazily dipping his tongue into my mouth, one hand coming up to cup my breast. “Besides, I think you want me just as badly as I want you.” 

I kissed him back, relinquishing my hold on his cock so I could rake my nails up his back, tangle my fingers in his hair. He rolled his hips against me, his erection pressing hard against my stomach. I couldn't quite stop my legs from parting or my hips from tilting toward his. 

He paused for a moment, one of my legs hooked partly around his waist. He raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

I paused for a moment, until I realized what it was he wanted and I started to laugh. "You're really something else, George Weasley."

His eyebrow was still raised. "That's not exactly what I was hoping to hear."

I laughed again, threading my fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer to me. "You're right: I want you just as badly as you want me."

"And...?"

I brought my lips to his ear. "Fuck me. Please."

"Well, since you said please..." I could hear the smile in his voice as he shifted his hips. There was that slightly awkward moment as he positioned his cock and then he was slowly easing his way into me.

It was a little uncomfortable to start—it had been a while since I’d last had sex and George was rather sizable. I shifted a bit as he bottomed out, his head buried in my shoulder.

“Fuck, you feel perfect.” He lifted his head to kiss me and frowned when he noticed me readjusting. “Do you need a minute?” 

“Yeah, just…” I shifted a little, trying to relax. “It’s been a while and you’re…rather substantial.”

"Rather substantial?" he said, quirking an eyebrow. "I must say, that's the first time I've heard that particular turn of phrase in bed."

"Well, you know, 'massive cock' is just so overused..."

"I dunno, I rather like hearing you talk about my massive cock," he said with a grin, kissing me sweetly on the mouth. "It's very sexy."

“It’s a bit unimaginative, I think.”

He chuckled. “Still does the job for me.”

I rolled my eyes and shifted cautiously. “I think I’m all right.”

His first thrust was cautious, gentle. My toes curled as he filled me and I let out a contented sigh. 

"Yeah, I'm definitely good," I said.

For all the frantic, heated grasping and gasping that had preceded this, the pace he set was surprisingly slow and intimate. He kissed me thoroughly, hands framing my face. 

"You feel so good," he murmured. "So tight and wet."

I inhaled sharply as he hit a particular angle. "You're not so bad yourself."

A sly sort of smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he repeated the motion. "Tell me."

"You're just trying to get me to say that you've got a massive cock again."

He chuckled, leaning into kiss me. "I told you it's incredibly sexy."

He hit the same angle again and I moaned, my fingers digging into his back. 

“Right there?” he asked, thrusting again.

“Yes, just like that—”

His pace remained slow and steady, his cock rubbing against a particular spot inside of me that made my back arch and my hips thrust up to meet him. A familiar, aching pressure was building in my hips and it felt so good that I couldn’t quite decide if I wanted relief or if I wanted it to go on forever. 

“Fuck, you’re close, aren’t you?” George mumbled in my ear. “I can feel how tight you’re getting.”

“Fuck, yes, don’t stop—”

“I want to feel you come—”

“Fuck—”

His hand slid between our bodies, his fingers finding the flesh right above my clit. I was still so sensitive from earlier that this gentle motion was enough. I came hard, my muscles spasming and clenching around the length of his cock as he drove into me over and over again.

“Fuck—” His thrusts became shallow and fast and he gave the most delicious groan as he came, burying his head in my shoulder.

We lay there for a moment, panting, satisfied. He slowly eased out of me, Vanishing the subsequent mess before flopping over onto his back. He took my hand in his, threading our fingers together, brushing his lips against my knuckles.

"So," he said after a moment. "Worth the wait?"

I pursed my lips. "I think...you're going to need to fuck me like that a few more times before I can say that for sure."

He grinned at me and pulled me to him and I cuddled up so that my cheek pressed against the steady beat of his heart.

"I'm certainly amenable to that challenge and look forward to exceeding all expectations," he said. "Perhaps we can start later this evening, maybe try out my desk."

"Again with the desk. Is this a thing that you have?"

He shrugged. "I love how you look naked in my bed—I think it's quite reasonable to want to see if I feel the same about you spread out and naked on my desk—"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, entirely reasonable."

"—or naked in my shower—"

"I mean, most people are naked in the shower—"

"Or naked in my bath—"

"I suppose you'll want to check the kitchen counters and the kitchen table—"

"Naturally. And the living room. And then there's the matter of your flat—"

"Oh for—"

"Don't act like you're not a little intrigued by these ideas." His voice took on that slightly rough and hungry edge that sent goosebumps marching up my spine. "The desk and the kitchen table are especially good  _heights_  for these ideas. And the kitchen table is thematically appropriate since that's also where I eat—"

"You're absurd," I said.

"I didn't hear you complaining about my mouth—what was it? Twenty minutes ago?"

"Note that you weren't talking twenty minutes ago—"

"No, I would say you were making enough noise for the both of us," he said. "I'm going to need to research some heavy duty Silencing Charms for this room—"

"Are you always this chatty after sex?"

"Sometimes. Better get used to it, sweetheart." He gave me a wide grin. "I bet I could get you to do three in a row, you know."

"For the love of—"

"Might shatter a few windows, but I think it'd be well worth it."

"You are impossible."

"Speaking of—" he checked his watch. "I'll probably be ready to go again in another fifteen to twenty minutes, if that's of interest."

It certainly was, though I was reluctant to confirm that for the sake of avoiding whatever monologue was likely to arise in the interim.

"If you play your cards right, perhaps."

He chuckled. "Well, you know how I feel about card games."

I sighed. "Have you ever had an orgasm over a card game?"

"Do you really want to the answer to that question?"

"If you intend to continue having orgasms inside of me, yes, that is information i would care to have."

He laughed. "No, a card game has never given me an orgasm. I'm a little offended that you felt the need to clarify."

"Listen, you have made that joke one too many times for me to leave that unresolved."

We were both quiet for a moment. 

"I wouldn't normally suggest sending flowers to another woman on Valentine's Day," he said, "but I wonder if we might send some to Katie, seeing as she sort of is responsible for all this."

"That's not a bad idea. I never answered her owls, so I imagine she's decided I'm no longer speaking to her."

"Good to know I'm not the only one whose owls you ignore," he said, twirling a lock of my hair round his forefinger.

I sighed. "I wasn't about to wade into that mess before work and certainly not without wine. For all I knew, it was an owl saying that you no longer wanted to see me and now you feel uncomfortable around me."

"Do you suppose the florist has 'thanks for facilitating some incredible sex' cards or shall I make my own?"

"One, I don't think that card exists because florists are likely sensible people and two, I really do not think it is necessary to include that sentiment in any shape or form on anything we send to Katie."

"Why? It was incredible sex _and_ it happened because of her."

"I don't think that is information that Katie wants or needs to have. And technically, I only turned up at the shop because I got an owl from my sister asking me to pick up my nephew's birthday gift," I said. "And I am certainly not sending that card to Quinn."

"I suppose you could also give credit to whoever failed to ensure that the anti-slip and anti-snow charms on the floors were functional and up to date. And that is the responsibility of—" His expression became horrified. "—Fred."

"So, I think we can both agree that your idea for a card is a terrible one and we can simply write something like 'Surprise! We're dating now, thanks for being drunk and oversharing' on Katie's—"

George raised an eyebrow. "We're dating now?"

My cheeks burned. "I mean...I'd hoped so...but I suppose we should discuss."

He shrugged. "Why bother discussing it when we're on the same page?"

I had a notion that the smile on my face was exceedingly goofy, but I didn't care. "Makes sense to me."

"What we should discuss is whether we're going to stay here, or try the shower, my desk, or the kitchen table..." he said, his grin turning wicked as he pulled me closer to him.

"Hmmm..." I straddled his lap and leaned backward in a stretch that was largely unnecessary. "I think I'd like to stay here. I want to have a go at being on top."

He took a deep breath and looked up at me with a hungry sort of look that made my stomach flip in anticipation. I could feel him growing hard against my thigh.

"I think we're going to need to upgrade those flowers," he said, as his fingers slid between my legs.

* * *

Valentine's Day wasn't so horrid after that.

We sent Katie flowers on Valentine's Day for the next several decades. One year, George did manage to sneak in a "Thanks for Facilitating Incredible Sex" card that he had made with construction paper, glitter, and paints that he had borrowed from our five year old's craft bin—and thank heaven she couldn't read yet because then I would have had to explain why Daddy was making a card that said "Thanks for Facilitating Incredible Sex" for Auntie Katie and what exactly was sex anyway?

Annoyingly, he was right about the desk and the kitchen table: they were the perfect height. 

**Author's Note:**

> Previously, I asked myself if I could write a sex scene and ended up writing a smutty one shot starring Fred Weasley (Prove It). It seemed only fair to write a second smutty one shot starring George.
> 
> These are set in the same universe. The unnamed girlfriend that Fred has gone to the Bahamas for the weekend is the same unnamed protagonist from Prove It.
> 
> Please note: The way that concussions are portrayed in this smutty one shot are strictly to advance the plot of said smutty one shot and facilitate overall smuttiness. Should you ever find yourself in a situation where you have concussed yourself, please seek medical attention immediately. Do not have have incredible sex with a handsome ginger shopowner even if you have a magic concussion curing potion at your disposal.
> 
> I made some minor edits on 8/20/19--nothing major, just cleaned up a few sentences that were bothering me.


End file.
